Four Instances in which Shaving Equals ManPain
by Madam Mimm
Summary: And One in which It Doesn't. In order, Dean&Cas  slash if you look for it , Bobby, Dean&John, Sam&Dean, Ellen&Jo. As the title implies, angst angst angst. All either in canon or pre-series.


**Four Instances in which Shaving Equals Man-Pain**

**Instance 1: Dean/Cas, 2014!verse.**

As soon as Sam said "yes", Castiel's fall had been inevitable. Each day, the world got a little worse… numbers of infected rose, say, or the death toll got higher, and with each new blow, Castiel got a little more human. He couldn't fly, couldn't hear the Host, soon he needed to eat and sleep. Dean would never admit it, but he knew that every time they saw Castiel tired or hungry, he felt a little more hopeless.

He taught Castiel humanity, day by day. It had started simply; pressure here means you're hungry, this sensation means you're tired, what you're describing is the feeling of guilt… Castiel had already learned a lot of it from watching Dean, but he found it difficult to apply that knowledge to himself.

The drugs, the drink, the sex… Dean hadn't encouraged it, but it wasn't like he'd tried to stop it either. The guy had found a way to cope. It probably wasn't the best way, but they weren't in a situation to be choosy. Besides, it wasn't that bad.

That was what Dean told himself.

Maybe he'd been preoccupied. Maybe he'd been ignoring it. Either way, it came as something of a sickening shock the first day he noticed Cas, sat outside of his cabin, staring absently into the distance.

"Cas?"

"What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday, Cas." Dean had approached him, watching as the ex-angel leant against the wall.

"Shit." Cas laughed, turning unstable eyes on Dean. "I think I blacked out yesterday. Was I around?"

"No, I didn't see you."

"Well that's something." Cas rubbed a hand over his face, before scratching his neck. "At least I wasn't walking around. Could get killed that way."

Dean stared at Cas for a moment, realising with a pang of heartbreak that before, when they were still hoping, he would never have let Cas go unconscious for an entire day. He would have checked in on him, he would have tried to help. It hurt him, a little, that he'd do that to what he supposed was the only friend he had left.

Cas was still scratching at the accumulation of dark hair around his neck, lost in his own thoughts. Dean watched him for a moment

"When did you start growing a beard?"

Castiel shrugged. "When I became human? I don't know, it just grows."

Dean's brow furrowed.

"Don't you know how to shave?"

Cas looked deeply thoughtful for a moment, before shaking his head.

"No."

"C'mon." He walked away, knowing Cas would follow him. They went to his cabin, where a disposable razor sat on the edge of the sink.

There was apparently enough residual angel energy around Cas that the hair grew slowly, since his beard was short, and it had been about two months since Cas felt he'd finally become completely human. Either that, or Cas just couldn't grow a beard.

Dean showed him how to lather up the soap (they hadn't bothered bringing back shaving cream in the last raid) and how to hold the razor, before stepping back and leaning against the tub, watching Cas' face in the dingy, rust-spotted mirror.

Somewhere, in the part of his mind that he'd long since bricked off, a memory struggled towards the front… A motel room in Austin, and a teenage Dean (who is too young yet to hunt) is teaching Sam in exactly the same way, watching exactly the same expression of intense concentration. He smothered it as soon as it came; there was no Sam, not any more.

Cas sucked in air through his teeth, dropping the razor as a small spot of blood blossomed on his cheek, trickling to merge with the yellow-white soap that still clung to his jaw.

"Sucker's sharp."

"Here." Dean handed him some toilet paper. Chuck would throw a fit, but the freak could keep his OCDs to himself, as far as Dean was concerned. It wasn't like they were eating much in the first place, forget wiping it away afterwards. Cas looked at the square of paper.

"Wipe away the blood, then tear off a little square and press it on the cut. It'll stop bleeding."

Cas did as he was told, and finished shaving his cheeks before moving onto the neck.

As he tilted his head back, the pale skin pressed against the dark lines of his veins. Dean watched the ex-angel's eyes strain to see the razor grate against the stretch of skin, taking away the top layer of stubble to reveal pale skin and dark veins underneath. His fingers were white on the razor as he held it there for a moment, steel blade against his throat. Their eyes met in the mirror, both knowing how easily he could slip, how simple it would be to press too hard. It wasn't like they had an abundance of medical supplies, either; best case was he'd bleed out, and worst case was an infection which he could probably let claim him. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Their eyes said it all.

The silent cry.

The unspoken apology.

Cas swallowed whatever it was he had almost said, and finished shaving. He wiped his face on his shirt, and smiled nervously at Dean, still struggling to mask his fear and confusion.

"Thanks."

Dean shrugged.

"You look better without the beard. I think everyone in camp will thank me."

Cas smiled, but stopped quickly. He motioned to the razor.  
>"Can I, uh… get some of those for my bathroom, then?"<p>

Dean stared at Cas for a moment, before heading for the door.

"You'll shave in here, under my supervision."

He didn't see Cas close his eyes. He didn't wait to hear the man bite back confused sobs, mourning his way out but agonisingly thankful someone refused it.

Dean was selfish. He had said it because he knew he couldn't do it alone. He had said it because he couldn't see Cas like that. He had said it because, eventually, shaving would become something routine, ordinary. And, if he could see the man, day by day, fight that urge to purposefully slide the razor across his throat… if he could see him overcome that…

Maybe they could start hoping again.

**(-*-)**

**Instance 2: Bobby. Pre-series**

Bobby had never been the tidiest of men. Personal grooming was all well and good for yuppies who worked nine to five, but there was no point in a daily bathing routine when your day revolved around climbing inside some other guy's car.

Not that he did much of that, these days.

He kept himself clean, of course, but he didn't often have time for haircuts and shaving. He tried, though. To keep Karen happy. She liked a short beard on a man, so she told him; a few slight bristles, but not so much it tickled when they kissed.

Of course, Karen could have told him she liked a man with a purple handlebar moustache and he would have happily gone out and bought the dye.

She would laugh at him for it, creeping up behind him in the bathroom and wrapping her arms around his chest, pressing her cheek against his. He would tell her if she wanted him shaved, she'd have to step aside and let him do it, and she would kiss him, telling him he didn't scare her one bit. He'd try to squirt shaving cream at her, and she would laugh again, running to the kitchen.

That sink was old, now. Stained with rust and thick with a layer of dirt. It had only been a week, but somehow everything seemed dirty, grimy, dull.

Without her, what was quaint and rustic was now drab and old.

Without her, what had been charming was now slowly festering.

Without her, Bobby's laughter didn't sound right.

Bobby stared at himself in the mirror. The shaving foam sat expectantly on one side of the basin, just like the razor waited patiently on the other. Just like the laundry waited in his bedroom, and a stack of books waited to be shelved in the library. All just waiting on for him to carry on, their presence the same quiet nagging it was every day.

How?

How was he expected to carry on like normal?

He couldn't carry on, because it wouldn't be carrying on. Carrying on implies that everything was the same, or that if there was something lacking, you could cover for it. But he couldn't. He couldn't lie; say his life meant anything without her. He'd done a terrible enough thing as it was, but living on after that? Acting like nothing was wrong? Like he didn't beg every night that God put her back and take him instead?

He picked up the razor, looking at it, watching the flickering bathroom light catch on the blades.

He'd need to change that bulb.

He had Rufus coming to talk to him later.

Rufus was slowly teaching him everything he knew about this crazy world of demons and monsters. He'd said Bobby would make a fine hunter, if he wanted to help people. And why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't he want to help someone, maybe even save their lives, so they can return to their families? So far, every person he'd seen Rufus save had twisted the knife, even if they didn't mean to.

He set the razor down and picked up the shaving cream, seeing no point in taking this long. She would have told him so, if she was there. She would have called up how she wasn't going to make another pot of coffee, and if he wanted anything decent he should get in gear.

His hand froze, fractions of an inch from his skin. He stared at himself in the mirror, before letting out a frustrated sigh and leaning against the basin with his clean hand. He washed the foam off the other.

He could sort the laundry. He would maybe stack the books. He'd need a stiff drink before he managed speaking to anyone else.

But he couldn't shave, not today. Not like he had anyone to shave for.

The razor and the foam both went in the bin, without a moment's hesitation. Days became weeks, became months.

He wore the hot, uncomfortable prickling like his own badge of shame, like the stone in his shoe he was not allowed to remove. He knew in time he'd get used to it, and then he'd maybe know he'd gotten over it, but for now, he had something to focus on. Like he needed some personal discomfort, however small, that told the world what he had done, and reminded him how sick he was supposed to feel for it.

For he had loved her, and he had killed her, and though he had no routine to speak of, he knew shaving was no longer a part of it.

Over the years, a shot of whisky every morning took the place of shaving, and the beard became something Bobby wore without question. But he never forgot her, nor did he forgive himself, and, as that old razor dulled itself in some landfill somewhere, he knew he never would.

**(-*-)**

**Instance 3: John and Dean, pre-series.**

Another week, another town. Dean struggled out of bed, stretching as he stifled a yawn. Sam was still asleep. Whatever, Dean decided; the kid had been up way later than usual last night, celebrating their first decent Christmas in a while. Dad had been there, they'd had a big bucket of KFC, actual presents to open, and they'd been allowed to stay up late watching Back to the Future. Sam had fallen asleep half way through, poor kid.

Yeah. Kid.

Dean was fourteen now, he wasn't a kid. Sam was.

He started making himself breakfast, grinning when his Dad came through the motel room door. His father looked none too alert.

"Hey. Want some coffee?"

"Good boy." His Dad smiled, moving straight through to the bathroom. "Just had to drive six blocks looking for a convenience store that was open. Damn slackers; they've had their day off, can't they get back to work?"

"What were you looking for?" Dean knew how his Dad liked his coffee, and had no trouble making it. He'd had another growth spurt recently; he was already up to his Dad's shoulder. Another reason why he was a grown-up and Sam was a kid. He was a foot and a half taller than the little runt, and he hoped that didn't change any time soon.

"Needed to buy some new razors." John grumbled from the bathroom. Dean poured out two mugs of coffee (admittedly he still took his with a spoon or two of sugar, but that was cool because Dad said it was an acquired taste), looking up when his Dad stuck his head around the bathroom door.

"Hey. Did I teach you how to shave yet?"

"No, sir."

"Get in here."

Dean did as he was told, and in no time at all he was stood next to his father, watching his reflection as the older man showed him how to pull the razor through the layer of soft foam.

"That's it… don't press too hard, or you'll cut yourself. Just slow movements… how you doing at school?"

"Good." Dean didn't take his eyes off his reflection, paying very close attention as he watched the razor slide down his cheeks. "I mean, I turn up, I do the work. I'm not like Sam; I don't go for the extra credit stuff."

"Why not?"

"No point. It's not like we're going to stick around. Besides, if I'm gonna be like you, I'd need extra credit in shop class, not math." He grinned up at his dad, and was glad to see John smiling back.

"What about socially? You make many friends?"

"Yeah, I make enough. It's kind of awesome always being the cool new kid. I can make up whatever I like, you know?"

Dean stopped shaving, watching his Dad for his next cue. Without saying anything, John tilted his head back and slid the razor up his neck, extra carefully, smiling when Dean did likewise.

"What about girls?"

"Dad!"

"C'mon, you can tell your old man."

"I don't know." Dean blushed.

"You kissed any yet?"

"Yeah." Dean scoffed, resuming shaving. "Like I said, I get to be the cool new kid."

John laughed at this, setting his razor down on the basin and grabbing one of the scratchy motel towels to wipe away the few odd streaks of foam. Dean smiled up at him.

"How'd I do?"

"I'm proud of you, boy." John handed the towel to Dean, smiling as his son's face lit up pink, partly from blushing and partly from razor-burn. "Now how about that coffee?"

"Right." Dean ducked his head and loped out of the bathroom, his teenage body awkward and clumsy. He paused, though, to turn his hopeful smile once more towards his father.

"D'you think Mom would be proud of me?"

John tensed, suppressing any reaction he might have had. Dean shrugged and made excuses to go back to the coffee; he knew he'd pushed it too far. John sighed out the tension, cursing himself for ruining an otherwise fine moment of bonding.

Would Mary have been proud of him?

Mary probably would have wanted Dean to be on the football team or with his first girlfriend by now, but it wasn't like John could do much about that. It was too late. And besides, it wasn't like they had any other family he could leave them with, and as much as he could guess what Mary would say, or how Mary would have wanted it, Mary wasn't around anymore.

No amount of moping would change that.

He knew dragging them up and down the country wouldn't make them normal, but it made them safe, and judging by the way his eldest boy was becoming a man, John had a feeling they wouldn't turn out so bad.

"Yeah." John grunted, taking his coffee from Dean and punching the young man in the arm. "I think she would be."

**(-*-)**

**Instance 4: Sam and Dean, Mystery Spot.**

There were precisely forty five possible ways a disposable razor could cause death, but it seemed only three for an electric razor.

The three for the electric were all pretty much a variant on:

Dean electrocutes himself

Dean somehow manages to strangle himself with the cord, or,

Dean cuts himself and ends up either bleeding out or getting an infection

The last one annoyed Sam a little bit, because it wasn't like an infection would take hold in twenty-four hours and even if it did, it could probably be treated, but whatever it was that was doing this to Dean seemed to be more for the "making a dramatic point" approach than for "realism".

It was just his luck to get stuck, not only in a time loop, but in one with all the shades of grey of a tacky daytime soap.

The disposable razor posed much more interesting scenarios, however. There were the obvious causes of death, such as Dean trying to shave in the shower, so that when he cut himself the steam and heat combined with the blood loss made him pass out and hit his head (5).

Then there were the less obvious ones; dropping the razor in the basin causing the plastic to break, and send shards of it into Dean's face (17), or down his throat so that he chokes (18).

Or even less direct causes of death: Dean drops the razor onto the floor, it cuts his foot and, in recoiling from the pain, he loses his footing, slips on the tile and cracks his skull (32).

Or, (and although this wasn't exactly a fault of the razor, Sam was inclined to list it under the same category,) a bizarre anaphylactic shock brought on by an allergic reaction to an ingredient in the shaving foam causes Dean's windpipe to swell up and he suffocates (41).

Sam couldn't write the list down, obviously. Every time they reset, he would lose it, even if he'd written it on his own arm. But he could keep it mentally; he had a good memory.

Of course, the lists of 'things that had killed Dean' was getting so crowded, it was starting to push other information out of his head. Little things, useless things he was starting to forget anyway, Sam told himself. Jess' phone number. The name of the last motel they stayed at. The point when he'd realised he wasn't getting out of this damn loop.

He'd stopped counting the Tuesdays. That was a good way to go mad, he'd realised, keeping a tally of how many times he'd had to stand there and watch Dean bleed, or choke, or scream, helpless as the life faded from his brother's eyes, the flare of panic that never quite died hitting him for that moment, almost making him forget that he was about to wake up. That was why he'd started listing the ways.

If he could say, "Dean died five times because of entry thirty seven on the list of 'ways to get killed by a disposable razor'", maybe it would stop hurting. Maybe it would become a thing that he accepted. Just numbers. Facts and figures.

He wasn't getting out. He accepted that. He didn't know what was causing it. He didn't know how to find out. He'd torn apart the Mystery Spot twelve different times, only to have it miraculously reconfigured with the rest of the world. Or, the world as Sam knew it. He'd never managed to get them more than ten miles outside of the town, before Dean made himself a victim, and Sam had to modify the list: Dean pulls over to stop at a convenience store so he can buy some more disposable razors, at which point the convenience store is robbed and Dean is shot (45).

He'd died seven times of that one, before Sam got the message that leaving was not an option.

None of the disposable razor deaths were particularly pleasant or dignified. He didn't need to see them happen to know that. He would hear Dean's startled yell, the squeak of wet tile, the sickening crunch as Dean hit the floor.

He would bite back tears, bite back his own cry. That was the one small mercy the time loop afforded him; After Sam had started listing the ways Dean died, he didn't need to actually see Dean die any more. He could just sit there, and wait for it to reset. Sam knew it, because he knew it was under his own volition he would run, every damn time, to see his brother bleeding, or choking, or screaming, because he had to see it happen. He had to know he couldn't have stopped it.

Sam would press his hand to the wound at the back of Dean's skull, seeing the blood gush across the floor, making what he knew was a futile effort to stop it, watching Dean stare at him, his eyes scared and painful as the light faded from them.

Every damn day. He could just close his eyes. He knew; he could feel it every time Dean died, but he had to brand himself with that pain.

It made him sick. It made him sad. He was pretty sure he was half mad at this point.

There were forty five possible ways a disposable razor could cause death. Sam had seen every single one of them.

**(-*-)**

**The one instance where it doesn't:**

**Jo and Ellen**

Her long, slender legs disappeared under a skirt that hung just over the knee. She danced and bobbed, bright bathroom lights catching on the droplets of water in her hair.

"Jo!" she could hear the sound of her mother hammering on the door, buried somewhere under the noise of her MP3. She yanked out an earphone with the hand that wasn't lathering her left leg.

"What?"

"Joanna-Beth, I would like to use the bathroom at some point this year! If we're late to open up because you're primping and preening…"

"Oh, like you don't gussy up before you get behind the bar." Jo shot back, holding her leg straight were this rested it on the edge of the bathtub, sliding the razor along her skin, revealing a strip of silky smooth, rose coloured flesh between the clouds of white soap. Her music still sounded in one ear, but she stopped dancing, turning her attention to more important matters.

"Don't you use that tone with me!" Her mother was clearly committed to the cause of ousting her teenage daughter from the bathroom. "And I'll have you know I have never "gussied up" for anyone in my life, let alone a crowd of hunters. They're not exactly the kind to give a damn whether you fixed your hair or not."

Jo shook her head, laughing, as Ellen paused behind the door.

"Oh god, you're not fixing yourself up for one of that useless crowd, are you? Joanna-Beth, if I find out you're pursuing a hunter, after all that you've seen…"

"Chill out, mom." Joanna laughed, continuing in her slow, measured movements as she scraped away strip after strip of cloudy white soap. "I'm not getting pretty for a hunter."

"Hmm." Ellen didn't sound impressed. "I bet you wouldn't turn them down, if they asked though."

"Ew, Mom!" Jo stopped, staring at the back of the door.

"What? I don't mean like Bobby or Rufus, Jo, be sensible... I've seen the way you look at Dean."

"Mom!" Jo tried again, because perhaps her mother had just missed the other half of the sentence her tone implied. The half that went 'you are so fantastically humiliating and please tell me I'm adopted'.

"Well then who are you prettying up for, young lady?"

"I…" Jo paused as she finished shaving, running a hand over her silky smooth skin, pleased with the result, "am prettying up because it's the first day of summer."

She dragged a towel over her hair once more, catching the last few loose drops of water before opening the door. Her mother raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you look beautiful, darling." Her mother smiled and pulled her into a hug, before sliding past her and into the bathroom. "I'm thinking barbeque for dinner, since you got all gussied up."

"Cool." Jo smiled, walking to her room. "Don't take too long though, we should probably open up soon."

Ellen gaped incredulously as the light shone against Jo's satin-smooth legs, which danced and disappeared behind her daughter's bedroom door. Ellen locked herself in the bathroom and scowled her way through her morning routine.

She loved her daughter dearly, but she had a feeling she was going to dump a bucket of ice over her head by the time the day was out.

That'd learn her.


End file.
